Fanny Howe calls loneliness 
a vow never made but kept. Yes. 
That makes sense to me, a postulant
without a post. Guardian angels,
sovereign ghosts, music, gin & tonics
keep me company. For sonic bliss
I turn to G. M. Hopkins. The octo
genarians on my block are talkative.
I talk back. I’d like to read to them,
but what? Hopkins? Fanny Howe?
No. My own grandmother preferred
puzzles. One was a fresco—devilish thing.
We never got to finish. (Oh). 
Offer each other a sign is far better, I think,
than take this bread; you get to touch
your neighbors at least. Still, I always
take the bread. Does it mean something,
the dream in which I ate the puzzle piece?